#tbitm

He gripped his quill, the nib biting into the parchment, ruining the careful notes on a new sleeping draught. "Get out of my head," he hissed, his voice a tired, crackling thing.

There was a soft chuckle, smooth and mocking, echoing from the shadows behind Severus. Severus whirled around, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. Nothing. Just the shadows, stretching and swaying. He slammed a fist on the desk, the force sending his inkwell skittering across the surface. "You're not real!"

A whisper, close to his ear, sent a shiver down his spine. Sullivan was real. Real enough to see his failures. Real enough to taste his fear.

Severus pressed his hands against his temples, trying to block out the voice, the image of Sullivan's smug, infuriating smile. He'd started seeing him in reflections – not just the mirror, but the polished surface of his potion cauldrons, the dark sheen of his desk. Even the glassy eyes of the preserved ingredients in his jars seemed to hold a mocking reflection of Sullivan.

The hallucinations were becoming more frequent and more vivid. He'd almost snapped at Slughorn during Potions class, mistaking the professor's jovial expression for Sullivan's patronizing smirk. He’d nearly cursed a first-year student because their silhouette looked too similar to Sullivan's.

He was losing control.

A wave of nausea washed over him and he stumbled to his feet, knocking over a stack of parchments. He didn't bother to pick them up. He needed to get out, to escape the suffocating confines of his chambers.

He lurched through the dimly lit corridors, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere, that Sullivan couldn't reach him. But where? The library? Too many reflective surfaces. The Great Hall? Too many eyes, too many opportunities for him to mistake a face for his.

He found himself wandering towards the Astronomy Tower, drawn by the vast, empty expanse of the night sky. Maybe, just maybe, the stars would offer some respite.

As he climbed the winding stairs, he could hear Sullivan's voice, a constant, insidious drone.

Pathetic, it whispered. Running away. Just like you always do.

He reached the top, the wind whipping at his robes, the vastness of the night stretching before him. He leaned against the stone railing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Leave me alone," he whispered, his voice hoarse. Severus heard that taunting laugh, bouncing around like a ball in his already cluttered mind.

Severus closed his eyes, the words he was hearing cutting deeper than any blade. He felt a surge of pure, unadulterated hatred – not for Sullivan, but for himself. He was trapped, a prisoner in his own mind, haunted by the ghost of a potential he could never reach.

He opened his eyes, staring out at the star-studded sky. A single tear traced a path down his cheek, breaking against the cold stone railing once it dropped. He was broken, utterly and irrevocably. He has been…ever since his own mouth chose to work against him. And Sullivan, the perfect, mocking reflection of his failures, was there to witness every agonizing moment.

Severus' gaze remained fixed on the stars, their distant pinpricks of light offering a cruel contrast to the suffocating darkness within him.

Sullivan’s voice became a chorus of broken whispers, echoing in the hollow chambers of his mind. Look down, it purred, the words laced with a deceptive tenderness. Just look down. See how insignificant they all are, how small and meaningless.

Severus felt a strange pull, a morbid curiosity drawing his gaze towards the dizzying drop below. The stone railing, cold and unyielding beneath his trembling fingers, seemed to offer a perverse invitation. Just lean forward. Just a little.

They’ve always scorned you, Sullivan continued, the voice growing louder, more insistent. They’ve always laughed. They’ve always looked down on you. Show them. Show them all how wrong they are.

The words reminded Severus of a knife tied like a present with lace and silk, soothing the raw edges of his wounded pride, yet feeding the festering resentment that had always simmered beneath the surface. He could almost feel the phantom weight of their judgment, the sting of their mockery. You could end it, Sullivan whispered, the voice now taking on a seductive caress. All the pain, all the humiliation, all the… nothingness. Just one step. One simple, final act.

Severus' body swayed slightly, drawn by an invisible force. He could almost see it, the release, the oblivion of endless rest. The ultimate escape from the relentless torment others and himself have made for him. His mind was a battlefield, a chaotic clash of conflicting desires.

One part of him, a small, fragile voice, screamed in protest, clinging to the remnants of reason, of self-preservation. But the other, the part that resonated with Sullivan’s whispers, yearned for the release, the final, devastating act of defiance.

He wanted to scream, to rage against the voices that had taken root in his mind, but his throat was constricted, choked by a silent, agonizing sob. He’d never felt so indecisive, so utterly paralyzed by the conflicting forces within him. He wanted to do it, to end it all, to silence the voices and erase the pain. But he also wanted to live, to prove them wrong, to find some semblance of redemption.

He promised her he'd live.

Severus clenched his fists, sharp and chewed nails digging into his palms in a desperate attempt to anchor himself to reality. He closed his eyes, head still raised to the stars as if seeking some divine intervention, some external force to break the curse cast over him.

Don’t you see? Sullivan hissed, the voice laced with impatience. This is your only way out. You’re trapped. Trapped in a life of misery. This is your chance to break free.

Severus’s breath tangled in his sobs, uttering shuddering gasps. He was trapped in his own mind as a prisoner of his own making, and the only key, the only escape, was held by the very entity that sought to destroy him.

His muscles tensed, his body poised on the precipice. Do it. It whispered, the assured smugness replaced with a quiet, almost hopeful tone. We can be free. We can finally be… whole. It sounded like it was coming from the other side of the railing, as if Sullivan himself was there, ready to take the leap, ready to swap places, to finally become the dominant self.

He curled tighter, his body shaking on the cold floor. Severus was trapped. He was a prisoner in his own mind, haunted by the ghost of a potential he could never reach, and abandoned by the only person who had tried to save him.

Just like before. He was alone, and he knew, with a chilling awareness, that he would remain alone, adrift in a sea of his own making.

Hours later, Severus dragged his feet through the dimly lit corridors, the chill of the dungeons seeping into his bones. He felt like a ghost, a shadow drifting through the halls, leaving a trail of despair in his wake. Students and professors alike flinched away, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and revulsion.

His depressive aura, a palpable weight, seemed to radiate from him, a silent warning to stay away that reached the tired students around him. He reached his chambers, the familiar gloom offering a strange sense of comfort. Severus stripped off his robes and clothes, his gaze fixing on the mirror.

He scrutinized his reflection, his eyes tracing every flaw, every imperfection.

His chest was too narrow, and somehow too soft, while his ribs were too prominent. His shoulders were hunched, and his skin was pale, almost translucent, marked by the faint shadows of old scars. His upper thighs, hidden beneath his robes, bore the more recent, ragged marks he had inflicted upon himself in moments of self-loathing.

Severus turned away, his stomach churning with disgust. He was a grotesque caricature of a human being. Maybe closer to a deer carcass. He went to the nauseating, large bathroom, the cold tile stinging his skin, still burning hot from digging his nails into his skin and scratching harshly.

He splashed cold water on his face, scrubbing away the grime of tears and snot. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the bathtub, the lukewarm water becoming a temporary balm to his aching body.

Severus sank down and his gaze fixed on the blank wall in front of him.

Sullivan's image materialized, vivid and clear, his gaze just as tired as Severus's own. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his posture radiating a quiet, weary confidence.

Severus stared at him, his eyes devoid of emotion. He felt nothing, not anger, not fear, not even hatred. Just an empty, hollow ache.

Sullivan's gaze met his, his eyes reflecting a strange pity. He didn't speak, and he didn't offer any taunts or insults. He simply watched.

Severus closed his eyes, but Sullivan's image remained, burned into his retinas. He'd forever be kept in the prison of his own mind, haunted by the ghost of a potential he could never reach.

Severus, still trembling, stared at the scarred hand that had silenced him. The realization hit him like a physical blow.

Lupin. Of all people. Him again.

He ripped the hand away, his eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fury. "You!" he hissed, his voice thick with loathing. "What do you want?"

He shoved Remus away, stumbling back towards the railing, though he didn't dare get too close. He clutched his chest, his heart still hammering against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice cracking with emotion. "How could you stop me?"

Remus, his face pale and etched with concern, stepped towards him, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Severus, please, just listen—"

"Listen?" Severus screamed, his voice echoing across the tower. "Listen to what? To your pathetic excuses? To your lies?" He began pacing, his movements erratic, pulling at his hair, scratching his skin, his eyes wild. "Why do you care? Why would you want to keep me here? Is it to watch me suffer? To give your friends another reason to laugh?”

He stopped, his eyes burning with tears. "Is that it? Do you want to see me crawl? Do you want to see me beg you to let me die?"

The Gryffindor sputtered, his words tumbling over each other. "No - what? Th-that's not it, I—"

"Then what?" Severus shrieked, cutting him off. "What possible reason could you have for saving me? You hate me! You're supposed to hate - ha-...Don't you all hate me?"

He turned away, his back to Remus, his shoulders shaking with sobs. "You just want to see me break, don't you? You want to see me reduced to nothing... You want to see me suffer in the same hell you and your friends created for me."

He whirled around, his eyes filled with desperate, pleading anger. "Tell me, Lupin! Tell me why you stopped me! Do you want to see me rot? Do you want to see me fade away, piece by piece, so your friends can have a good laugh at my misery? Is that it? Is that what you want? Come up with an excuse - I dare you,"

Severus clutched his chest, his breath hitching. "Or is it something worse? Do you want to keep me alive... so you can look like a good person?" He laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "So you can get praise? Or-or get me to just like you?”

Severus didn't want to, but he began to sob, his body wracking with tremors. "Just leave me alone," he whispered in a hoarse breath. "Just let me go..." He sank to his knees, his face buried in his hands, body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.

Remus Lupin, the unexpected savior, was now the unwilling witness to Severus' destruction.

He stood frozen, words trapped in his throat. His heart had started aching with this raw...unfamiliar pain, close to what he was used to, but so far off it made him sick to his stomach.

He watched Severus, curled on the cold stone floor as his body convulsed with sobs. Remus wanted to reach out. He wanted to offer some semblance of comfort, but the words died on his lips and tongue, and he remembered something.

He understood with a chilling clarity that any attempt at comfort would be futile, perhaps even cruel.

Severus was a raw wound, exposed and bleeding. Remus was a member of the very group that had deepened those wounds, and the last person Severus wanted to see.

But he couldn't leave him. He had a fear that Severus would make another attempt, that he would slip into the abyss if left alone. But staying felt equally wrong. Each sob, each ragged breath, and each wail that sounded close to a wounded baby animal tore Remus further away from staying.

He took a step back, then another. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if any sudden movement would shatter the fragile silence and scare Severus off. Remus walked backward, staggering slightly, his gaze never leaving the black figure. He needed to leave, but he couldn't bear to turn his back.

But then, with a sudden, desperate surge, Remus turned and sprinted. His footsteps echoed on the stone stairs, and his heart pounded in his chest. He fled the tower, afraid and imprinted with that memory - that look Severus gave him.

†

Severus remained curled on the cold floor, his sobs echoing in the empty tower. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing. He felt hollow, empty as if the very essence of his being had been ripped away, leaving behind only a shell.

The wind howled outside, a mournful cry that mirrored the desolation within him. He was alone, utterly and completely alone. The stars, once a distant, mocking reminder of his insignificance, were now hidden behind a veil of clouds, leaving him in complete darkness.

He listened, his ears straining for any sound, any echo of Sullivan's voice. The silence was unnerving, a temporary reprieve that only heightened the anticipation of its return. He knew it wouldn't last. Sullivan was a part of him, an insidious presence that would not be silenced for long. He was only waiting, gathering his strength, preparing to unleash another wave of torment.

He curled tighter, his body shaking, his mind a wasteland of despair. He was trapped, a prisoner in his own mind, haunted by the ghost of a potential he could never reach, and abandoned by the only person who had tried to save him.

Severus crawled into bed, his bones weak, joints aching. He'd neglected the potions Narcissa had sent him, the vials of restorative draughts and calming elixirs lying untouched on his bedside table. They would have to wait until tomorrow...if he had the energy to face tomorrow. He was too exhausted, too drained, to move another muscle.

He lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, his mind a blank canvas. He felt numb. It wasn't anything new, but not very welcome. It all ended horribly once the morning came.

Suddenly, his bed dipped slightly, and he felt a weight settle on his hips. Sullivan was there, sitting astride him, his dark eyes fixed on Severus' face. His gaze was intense and unwavering like a silent accusation.

He leaned in, his forehead pressing against Severus'. "Let's remind ourselves of all the things we've done today," he whispered, his voice a low, insidious murmur.

Severus remained silent and kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He didn't have the energy to argue or resist. He didn't feel like protesting.

Sullivan began to list them --- all his wrongdoings starting from waking up in the morning. One by one, each transgression a sharp, stinging rebuke. He recounted every failure, every weakness, every moment of self-doubt and despair.

He spoke of the near attempt at the tower, of the sobs, of the show of weakness.

As Sullivan spoke, he lazily wrapped his arms around Severus's shoulders, pulling himself closer to the limp body. The touch was cold and almost predatory. Severus allowed it.

Sullivan leaned closer, his lips brushing against Severus's ear. He whispered a seductive caress, outlining ways to finish what Lupin had interrupted. He suggested new methods, new places, and new moments to ensure it was done. He spoke of the sweet release, the final escape, the ultimate act of defiance.

Severus listened, his mind a passive recipient of Sullivan's insidious whispers. He felt a sickening sense of dread, a cold, heavy weight settling in his stomach. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that Sullivan would not rest until his desires were fulfilled.

The polished surface of the cauldron, darkened from years of use, reflected his face back to him. There, a pale, drawn version of himself stared back, with dark circles under his eyes stark against his sallow skin. They had deepened since last week. When he...

Severus flinched, quickly averting his gaze. “Focus,” he muttered, the sound lost in the bubbling potion. He had to finish this brew. He had to maintain the illusion of normalcy—or whatever semblance of normal everyone else perceived.

A stray drop of liquid splashed onto his hand, burning like acid. He hissed and instinctively pulled back. The boy stared at the reddening mark on his skin, an unsettling coiling feeling growing in his stomach. Even the simple act of brewing potions, something he usually excelled at, was turning into a battle.

Steeling himself, Severus resumed his work, his movements less steady and increasingly frantic. He couldn’t afford to fail at this. He couldn’t let slip the one thing for which he was respected.

With a final pinch of powdered valerian root, he stirred the potion clockwise, watching as it transformed into a swirling, murky green. The reflection rippled and distorted, distorting his image and threatening to morph into something unrecognizable.

Suddenly, he slammed the stirring rod down onto the table, the sharp clang slicing through the silence of the classroom.

He had to get out.

He couldn’t breathe.

The air was too thick, too heavy...

Severus stumbled out of the potions classroom, the door slamming shut behind him with a deafening thud. He craved fresh air, room to breathe—anything to escape the turmoil of his own thoughts. Surely things would be better now. He prayed and everything.

God was supposed to heal it all - his insanity, his inability to live like the others. As he walked down the hall, looking to find someone safe and secure that wasn't an empty classroom (during his last daily cry, some couple stumbled in while passionately tangoing. he left quickly after that), Severus thought of something that made him twitch.

What if God was against him? Hell, maybe he was the antichrist. Maybe that's why his father loathed him and told him he was the cause of their poverty. Of their sickness and less fortunate lives.

Walking down a dimly lit hall with bad eyesight and too many thoughts in his mind lead him to go without noticing Lupin until it was too late.

They collided, the impact sending Severus reeling backward. He had another quick thought; was he destined to meet every main part of his story by bumping into it?

Lupin stepped back, shaking his head as if trying to clear the daze. He looked apologetic at first, then confused, a little blank for a split second, and then finally, "Severus—" he began, his voice soft and tentative. He reached out a hand, a gesture of... something that Severus couldn’t quite understand. "Are you alright? Did - did I hurt you? Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention."

The gentleness in Lupin's tone and the concern etched on his face felt like a hundred belt lashings to Severus’s ribs. He recoiled, "Don’t touch me," he hissed, his voice quaking despite his effort to sound fierce.

"Severus, please—" Lupin tried again, his voice steady, his hand lingering in the air. "We...We need to talk."

Severus grimaced. "Talk?" He scoffed. "What could we possibly have to discuss?" He felt the familiar sting of tears at the corners of his eyes, a painful reminder of that ridiculous nickname that haunted him.

Always crying, always sniveling. It wasn’t his fault he reacted that way... right? Wasn't it normal to cry? He was allowed to cry away from home, wasn't he?

Lupin's calm demeanor felt like a cruel joke. There he stood, handsome and perfect even with his scars, ready to resolve things like some wise adult. Always so accommodating to those who hardly deserved it; what a saint Remus John Lupin was.

"You’ve made your point, Lupin," Severus spat, bitterness lacing his words. "You’ve figured out what I am, right? I can just picture your dull-witted friends fawning over that little tidbit when you shared it..."

"That’s not—" Lupin began, but Severus cut him off, his voice rising with desperation. "What’s your problem? Do us all a favor and stop making it worse! Just get out of my way and leave me in peace!"

He pushed past Remus, the urgency of his movement driven by panic and a fierce need to escape. "Spare me your sympathy. I wouldn’t take a single crumb from your plate, even if I were starving."

Without waiting for a reply, Severus rushed down the corridor, the image of Remus’s concerned face burned into his memory.

He was remarkably adept at running from things, almost as if it were a talent in itself. Unfortunately, there was one small hitch: he couldn't see very well through the tears that threatened to fall.

To hell with Lupin and his soft tone, acting as if he needs to be babied. Couldn't the idiot just understand that he didn't want to talk? Why was it so important for him to open up? They never listened before and they'll never listen now.

He shouldn't have been at the Astronomy Tower. He shouldn't have let something completely fictional get into his head. He shouldn't have let Remus see him again - he should've killed himself while he still had the chance. Why didn't he do it? Why is he still sticking around? What is wrong with him?

Why couldn't his life be any different?

It wasn't until he collided with Potter that he realized someone was there, both of them staggering from the impact. Seriously, what was up with him constantly running into things? Had he really become this uncoordinated so quickly, or was this the work of an external force?

"Blimey, Snivellus, ever heard of slowing down? What’s your problem?" Potter huffed, brushing off the side that bumped into Severus as if he had picked up a mountain of dirt from the encounter.

Severus’s breath caught in his throat. The walls of the corridor felt like they were closing in on him. He was unable to speak, not even capable of forming a coherent thought. Right there, just on the verge of madness, and these people were pushing him over the edge of it all.

He pivoted sharply, searching for a way to escape, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the floor as he retreated. Potter narrowed his eyes at him, casually sliding his hands into his pockets and smirking. He approached Severus with an easy, lazy gait, long strides closing the gap between them with alarming speed.

"Headed back to your chemistry class, huh? You don’t mind if we tag along, do you?" Potter grinned, his hazel eyes oddly vibrant in the dim hallway light. The word 'we' stood out to Severus.

'We' as in Potter and Lupin, or 'we' as in Black and Potter? Maybe it was all three of them. Perhaps this was all a setup. Somehow, he felt comforted by the idea of Remus's actions being a lie. He doesn't have anything to look forward to.

Just as Severus prepared to sprint for the entrance to his House, he suddenly heard a sharp, irritating snicker. In that moment, all hope faded.

Sirius Black appeared around the corner, his face glowing with confidence, effortlessly handsome and far too smooth for some pubescent teen boy. He wore an easy smile, his half-lidded eyes resting heavily on Severus. That smile felt so familiar—painfully reminiscent of Sullivan’s—but deep down, Severus knew Sullivan was just a pale imitation.

Severus's hands clenched into fists. He wanted to scream at them, to lash out and make them feel the same suffocating ache gnawing at him. But he couldn’t. He felt frozen in place, immobilized, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

"Please, not now," he managed to choke out, a soft tremor in his voice. The words sounded feeble and pathetic, a stark contrast to the venom he usually wielded. What venom could a nearly-dead snake spit? When it knows it’s about to meet its end, what fight can it possibly muster?

Severus was tired. He was a kid. This wasn't funny or fair in any way.

Severus’s breath hitched; his chest felt tight. Cold fingers encircled his forearm, pulling him closer to a colder body. He let his head drop, staring blankly at the floor beneath him, all while Sullivan leaned against him like an old friend, casting a curious glance at Sirius.

He should just give in, let them have their moment of amusement, and then everything would be fine.

Out of all the options presented to him, that one seemed the most convincing. A little second, or maybe forty-five minutes of being berated should be manageable.

A voice cut through the tense silence abruptly, a desperate plea that shattered the anxious atmosphere. "Wait!"

Lupin stood at the far end of the corridor, his face pale. He looked from his friends to Severus, his gaze lingering on the trembling boy before him.

"Moons, finally!" Potter greeted, sauntering up behind Severus and slinging his arm over the boy's shoulders. The Slytherin flinched, naturally, because imagine if someone you loathed chose to do the same to you. How would you feel?

Even Lupin flinched at the gesture, but that's more because of the face Severus made at it. "James... um, maybe we should just leave him be today," he suggested meekly, his voice shaky. Severus couldn’t help but cringe. Was he still pretending to care? Who keeps a facade up for this long?

Psychopaths, perhaps.

Right.

Severus didn’t catch the rest of Lupin’s words, but he was sure he said something more. None of it mattered as much as the figure they couldn’t see. Sullivan's perfect nose was buried in Severus's neck, eyes peeking out from his collar. Severus felt a rising pressure, a physical ache forming in his temples.

A quiet whimper escaped with an inhale. Pain again to show the whole world. How pleasurable, he thought, why not add a few more Marauders in on this.

"Moony? Is something up?" Black asked, concern lacing his voice. He had a soft spot for Lupin, it seemed—a tone he reserved only for him. It might have been the wrong timing, but Severus felt weird energy radiating off them, like when a couple becomes annoyingly close to kissing.

Lupin repeated something, stepping between his friends and Severus, his hands raised as if trying to shield the Slytherin boy from their gaze. He was short enough, so in a way, the Gryffindor was actually helping. Severus's eyes flickered between Lupin, Potter, and Black in a dizzying cycle. Lupin. Potter. Black.

He could barely see them, let alone hear them at this point. The splitting pain in his head escalated from a dull ache to an unbearably sharp throb. He could feel his thoughts unraveling, the very fabric of his being torn apart.

Severus swayed slightly, his legs threatening to buckle underneath him. The world around him spun, the jeers and pleas merging into an unbearable, distorted cacophony. Was he really on the verge of fainting? Now? Sullivan let out a chuckle that echoed through the hall, untraceable in source, not that Severus would bother to try at this point.

"Bed..." he muttered, "need to go." If Severus wanted to save himself from any more trouble, he needed to start moving again. He took a shaky step, then another, trying to push past Lupin, who stood firmly in his way. "Severus, please—" Remus began, urgency creeping into his voice as he reached out to grab his arm.

Severus recoiled, pulling away with unexpected strength. "No! I told you to leave me alone more than once!" he hissed, his voice trembling. He needed to escape, to break free from their concern, their judgment, their very presence. Sullivan grabbed him by the other arm, tugging insistently and pointing down the hall.

But Lupin tightened his grip, fingers digging into Severus's arm. "Severus, you're not okay...You genuinely look like death. We need to talk about this-"

"Talk? You're still trying that?" Severus snarled, desperation flashing in his eyes, almost feral. "So you're the kind of guy to not take no for an answer."

"Remus, what's going on?" Sirius demanded, his voice sharp and his expression narrowed. He seized Lupin’s arm, his grip just as firm. "What’s wrong with him?" Then, he whipped his head over to Severus, an accusatory tone in his voice. "Why are you acting like this?" He felt deeply unsettled by Lupin's frantic demeanor, a stark contrast to the calm friend he knew. "What did you do?"

Severus frowned. It was always what he did and not what someone else did. He was a problem, a professional jinx.

"Just let him go, mate!" James chimed in, a mix of confusion and irritation in his tone. "He’s clearly not thinking straight."

"No!" Lupin snapped, startling the others. "He needs help! He can't just—"

"Oh, please, just leave me alone," Severus whined, straining against Lupin’s grip. "I don’t need your help! Stop trying to play the hero with my problems; it’s exhausting."

The pounding pain in his head grew stronger, a blinding white flashing behind his eyes.

Passing out would be incredibly awkward. Sullivan nodded, clearly in agreement. He didn't look absolutely thrilled by Lupin's actions either.

"Severus, please, just listen to me—" Lupin pleaded.

"Get off me!" Severus screamed, scratching at his already scarred hand.

Catching a glimpse of something sleek being pulled from Potter's pocket, he sensed both discomfort and a feeling of being cornered in the expression on his friend’s face. Five hundred sickles said it was definitely Severus who was about to be hexed. For what? He wasn't going to stick around and find out.

With a surge of determination, Severus pulled with all his strength and finally broke free. He stumbled backward, vision blurring and breath coming in ragged gasps. He had to escape, to find a dark, quiet place where he could simply cease to exist for the next forty-eight hours.

Without a moment's hesitation, he turned and fled, leaving Lupin's frustrated cry echoing behind him.

Severus didn't make it to the Slytherin common room. The thought of facing his housemates—the whispers, the stares, the inevitable questions—made him feel sick. The idea of navigating that social minefield, pretending to be okay while he was falling apart, was scarier than the thought of being hunted.

He ran, not caring about direction, driven only by the instinct to escape. The heavy oak doors of the castle flew open as he burst through, the cool evening air hitting him like a jolt. He didn't stop or slow down, his feet pounding against the uneven ground. The castle lights faded behind him, shrinking to a distant glow.

He had no idea where he was headed, only that he needed to get far, far away from the reality of his reckless actions. He stumbled through the darkness, his breath leaving him in ragged coughs, heart pounding in his chest. In the distance, he spotted Hagrid's hut, a small flickering light against the vast darkness.

It felt like a refuge, a spot of isolation, far removed from the castle and its inhabitants. Without a second thought, Severus changed direction; he had been heading for the Forbidden Forest, still subconsciously seeking a way to escape it all.

The shadow of Sullivan loomed over him, serving as a constant presence. The hallucinations were less vivid now, but the weight of his absence remained. He could almost feel Sullivan's presence—a phantom hand on his shoulder, pushing him away from the world.

Severus stumbled toward the hut, his limbs clumsy and unsteady. The ground beneath him was uneven, and darkness only added to his disorientation. He tripped and fell, scraping his hands on the rough earth, but the pain barely registered.

When he reached the hut, his chest heaved, and his body trembled with anxiety. He paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the rough wooden door. Hagrid was still a stranger, an outsider like himself, but he exuded something—solitude? Acceptance? Severus wasn’t sure.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Peter exhaled, walking over to Remus' bed. He sank down on the corner, tired pale eyes watching their friends roughhouse each other like baby animals. "They've been at it for thirty minutes now. I told them to calm it down but..."

"It's fine," Remus said quickly as he threw the covers off his lower half. "It's just what I need to see right now, actually. Two idiots, you, and hopefully the chocolate that I left on my bedside table."

The room fell into silence. Remus placed his hands on his hips, squinting at the suddenly awfully guilty-looking Quidditch players. He adjusted his glasses before taking a peek over his shoulder, his eyes landing on an empty space that hadn't been there last night.

That was enough to distract him from the growing uneasiness in his stomach because he was able to start hauling and flipping his friends everywhere in that room while Peter watched in amused silence.

Later, he entered the bustling common room, the scent of burnt toast and spilled pumpkin juice assaulting his senses, which became a stark reminder of the ordinary life he was struggling to rejoin. "Morning, lads," he mumbled, his voice a little hoarse, barely audible above James's enthusiastic recount of a Quidditch maneuver.

They were going to act as if that whole smackdown over chocolate didn't happen. Because it truly didn't happen once Remus managed to find the half-eaten chocolate in Peter's closet. Peter got a pass.

Sirius leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips, but even his usual playful jabs seemed to fall flat. Remus nodded along, trying to focus on the conversation. He needed to anchor himself in the present, but his mind kept drifting back to the raw pain in Snape's eyes, the desperate, broken words that still echoed in his ears.

He wondered if Severus was all right. If he was still even...

No, he thought, shaking his head, a cold dread settling in his stomach. He couldn't let himself think like that. He had to act normal, even as the memory of last night threatened to shatter the fragile illusion.

Remus forced a half-hearted chuckle at one of Sirius' backtalks, but his eyes kept scanning the crowded hall, searching for a glimpse of dark hair and a large nose. He needed to see Severus, to know he was alright, but a knot of anxiety tightened in his chest. What would he even say? 'Sorry, I decided that helping you was a good idea'?

Probably not. Well, Severus told him to leave, yeah? He wouldn't have wanted Remus to stay anyway and he'd probably scowl if Remus apologized for that. Remus shouldn't have had to in the first place, but he felt like he did.

The first opportunity came during Transfiguration. Remus sat a few rows behind where the Slytherin sat, his attention divided between Professor McGonagall's lecture and the back of Severus' head. Not even the grease deterred Remus from the way Severus' shoulders were hunched or the way he seemed to avoid eye contact with everyone.

Remus' heart ached. He was a sucker for the wet cat trope of human beings. He scribbled a quick note on a scrap of parchment – 'Are you alright? – Remus' – and waited for a break in the lecture. When the class ended, he rose, intending to slip the note to Severus, but before he could get very far, Sirius grabbed his arm and tugged.

"Hurry up, Moons, let's go," he urged, dragging Remus towards the door. "We're going to try that new Bludger tactic."

Remus glanced back, but Severus was already gone, swallowed by the throng of students. He sighed, crumpling the note in his hand.

The next time he saw Severus was in the hallway between Herbology and Potions. Remus tried to catch his eye, to offer a tentative smile, but Severus simply looked away, his expression blank, and quickened his pace. He was about to call out, but James, ever oblivious, bumped into him, nearly sending his books flying.

"Woah, yeesh, Moony...hey, are you alright?" James asked, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah, fine," Remus mumbled, watching as Severus disappeared around the corner.

By lunchtime, Remus was a bundle of frayed nerves. He sat at the Gryffindor table, picking at his food, his gaze constantly darting towards the Slytherin table. Severus was there, but he seemed to exist in a bubble, his eyes fixed on his plate, his posture rigid. Remus debated approaching him, but the memory of Severus's harsh words from the previous night held him back.

What if he lashes out again?

As the lunch bell rang, Remus finally decided to make his final move for the day. He stood, pushing his chair back. Just as he took a step, Severus rose abruptly and vanished into the crowd. Remus watched him go and cursed him out internally.

Severus was deliberately avoiding him, erasing himself from Remus's view, and it was so obvious. Maybe it was better to leave him be. Days after a moment like that...they were hard. He knew that firsthand. But Remus was different from Severus.

He had his friends --- good friends --- who stayed with him and comforted him, never leaving his side until he was sure that he could be alone again. Did Slytherin's even...know what comforting was?

Remus wasn't sure.

But he did know that there was no way Severus had those kinds of friends. They'd probably use the chance to manipulate him into becoming a Death Eater.

"Ahh, Snape," Remus groaned quietly as he walked back to the dorm behind the others. "You're so annoying..."

Snape p.o.v

The first sliver of consciousness was a sharp, piercing ache behind his eyes, followed by a soft, insidious whisper. The words weren't spoken aloud, but they resonated within his skull. A constant, maddening hum.

Severus squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the voice, but he clung to him like a shadow. Every muscle ached while his limbs were heavy as lead. He dragged himself out of bed and saw his reflection in the tarnished mirror. Gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger.

The sight made him recoil, a wave of self-disgust washing over him. He looked like a ghost, a shell of himself, and the thought was both terrifying yet strangely appealing. He didn't know who he used to be, or what he used to look like.

He splashed cold water on his face, but the icy shock did little to clear the fog in his mind. Severus got ready for classes...attended said classes as if nothing happened the night before.

Then, he could feel it. A prickling sensation at the back of his neck, a constant, unwanted scrutiny. Like a predator, he was hunting him, and Severus was acting as the prey.

Quickly, the ravenette slipped behind a tapestry, his heart pounding in his ears, and watched as Lupin passed, his brow furrowed with worry.

Vulnerable.

Severus clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms as he tried to drown out the voices with pain. The memories, the sheer, crushing weight of his existence.

He remembered the raw, desperate fear from the night before. Sullivan’s steed, and then Remus’s face, etched with a concern he didn’t deserve. He navigated the corridors like a phantom, his senses heightened, anticipating Lupin’s every move.

He slipped through hidden passages, avoided crowded areas, and clung to the shadows. A normalcy now suddenly working as his survival tactic. Severus soon found himself in an empty classroom. He sank into a chair, his body trembling, his breathing ragged.

Let go.

There's nothing left for me here.

He closed his eyes tightly, curling in the seat, fingers threading through his tousled hair. Severus saw Remus’s face again, the concern, the worry, and then the flash of fear as he had lashed out.

Severus was such a monster. Broken and wretched like the worst wizards to ever walk the Earth. He felt hunted. The walls were closing in again. He kept getting the memory of the black pool and the steed a constant, suffocating presence.

He was sinking again, this time into deep quicksand, panic rising in his throat. Severus whimpered, choking on his inhale. He covered his eyes, nails catching in his thin, pale skin.

Author’s Note: The only AU thing here is that Bruce would ever agree to this dinner! It’s the night of the gymnastics show, so let’s just say Bruce never came back early, Dick never rushed off, Richard never got the wrong idea and kissed him in the locker room. Bruce never saw them together, Richard never mouthed off to him, Dick never turned against Richard. Dick’s going to escape tomorrow, Saturday, so they still have tonight. Richard invited him out to the team’s celebratory dinner at a fancy restaurant after everyone else had left.

I SHIP IT. I ship this pairing too hard.

  Dick tucked a stray rumple in his shirt back into his slacks as he approached the restaurant. It was a fancy place, stratospheres above anywhere Dick would have gone before Bruce sunk his claws into him, but it probably wasn’t quite the kind of place Bruce would go. It was fancy, but it wasn’t the kind of place that was closed unless a certain type of person made a reservation. So Dick was wearing a suit, a white shirt, a tie. Alfred had helped him, producing the suit on a hanger in a long slate-coloured sleeve that reminded Dick of a body bag. Dick was also wearing one of the watches Bruce had supplied him with, as well as cufflinks, a tie pin, a designer leather belt... He’d done his hair as best he could. He felt ridiculously over-dressed, but he still worried that somehow he didn’t look the part.

The Rolls stayed on the curb behind him, ignoring the traffic, as Alfred watched to make sure he actually went inside and sat down.

Taking a deep breath, Dick opened the heavy wood and glass door and stepped into the near darkness of the restaurant. He was immediately set upon by the Maitre D’, who appeared to want to help him find another place to eat. Dick managed to mumble enough about the Allen Bex gymnastics team and its captain, Richard Rawn, to eventually be shown to a table. The man led him into the main body of the restaurant, and it was only once they’d reached the table that Dick was able to see around him, and when he did...

Shit.

Richard was sitting alone at a table for two.

Richard was wearing a tuxedo.

His golden hair was slicked back somehow into supermodel waves.

Shit.

Richard leapt up instantly, flustered. The Maitre D’ bowed himself out and left.

“Dick, hi, glad you could, um,” Richard cleared his throat. “Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah... Hi...” Dick was looking at the small, intimate table for two, with its artfully half-melted red candle and spotless white table cloth.

“Okay, I can explain,” Richard began, sitting down again, clearly hoping Dick would do the same, so he did. Dick eased onto the plush pink cushion like his body hurt, keeping his legs out from under the table. He found it hard to look at the other boy. This was the Richard Dick had always known Richard could be; monied, handsome. It made Dick feel small and squalid, like he’d done something wrong just by being here, taken a wrong turn, opened the wrong door, walked into the wrong room. Maybe it was just the dark pink walls reflecting the candle light, but Richard looked flushed, like maybe he was blushing, and he was avoiding Dick’s eyes. Dick looked across the room to the large window onto the street, expecting there to be paparazzi or something, but no. None of the passers-by even looked in.

“Okay...” Dick replied, still casting his eyes about for the trick, confused and not sure how to feel.

“I know I gave you the impression the rest of the team would be here...” Richard began. Dick shot him a sharp look. “Alright, I know I told you the rest of the team would be here... but when I said it would be a team celebration, I didn’t lie... exactly.”

Dick was watching him now, and the senior seemed to have got over whatever had made him avoid Dick’s eyes when he’d first arrived. Now Richard was looking at him with something close to that familiar playfulness, that cheekiness that was so charismatic that it usually let him get away with anything. It was similar, but not quite there, as if Richard was struggling to make it fit properly on his face. Dick suspected that the whole restaurant didn’t smell like cologne and it was Richard he could smell.

“It is a team celebration. We’re on the team and we’re celebrating. We did great tonight. You did great tonight,” Richard explained.

The waiter chose that moment to interrupt for their drinks orders. Dick panicked, having been too distracted to even open his menu, and he felt worse when he noticed Richard already had a glass in front of him.

Richard noticed his alarm and jumped in to order a coke for him. The waiter broadcast snobbish disappointment, but went away.

Dick looked at Richard from under his lashes, self-conscious. “I always feel too embarrassed to order coke in places like this,” he offered.

“Yeah but they always have it, don’t they? So who should be embarrassed?” Richard replied, giving Dick a crooked smile and the rest of the room a scowl. “Anyway, as I was saying, you did really great tonight, and I know the team would want to celebrate you, so I thought I’d take you out.” Richard was sipping from his water a lot, and maybe Dick still looked hesitant because he continued. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. You can leave. No harm, no foul. I just thought it would be fun, you know? Since it’s almost the end of the year and everything...” He wasn’t smiling now, and his knee was jumping and stopping under the table.

“I don’t... I only have Bruce’s card.” Dick said.

Richard shrugged one shoulder, his glass at his lips again. “On me,” he offered as if it was nothing.

“I’m not dressed right.”

“You look great, you’re just making excuses.”

Dick looked around the restaurant. No paparazzi had jumped out at him yet; Bruce was out of town. The restaurant was really very dimly lit; all the wall lights seemed to be pointing at the ceiling, creating a heaven of golden-white, but at the table level, Richard’s face flickered and glowed with the candle. The cutlery looked like silver, the glasses crystal. At the other tables sat older couples and businessmen held the booths. A few women in glamorous dresses might have been going to the opera or the ballet.

“This kind of feels like a date,” Dick all but whispered.

Richard seemed to go still, but he brought his glass to his mouth and asked “Does it?”

That wasn’t much to go on. It wasn’t a denial. Was Dick being stupid?

Richard put his glass down suddenly and said “Come on, Dick, it’s not like this is the first time we’ve eaten together.” His voice was a little harsh.

“Sorry, you’re right,” Dick apologised immediately. He was being stupid. Of course it wasn’t a date. Richard would never...

“Hey, don’t do that.” Richard tapped Dick’s leg with his foot under the table, and smiled apologetically. “Don’t just... fold to me like that. Like you think I’m gonna get mad at you or something. That was... If you don’t want to be here, that’s fine. I just got a little ahead of myself. After all, it’s not like I asked if you wanted to come. I did trick you. You’d be perfectly within your rights to leave me here...” He tilted his head and pouted. “Alone...” He lowered his head more, as if trying to catch Dick’s eye. “By myself...” He fluttered his blonde eyelashes. “On my own...”

Dick laughed. He couldn’t help it. Richard was so ridiculous sometimes. Dick didn’t know anybody else who could make him laugh like that.

The waiter returned with their drinks, putting the glass bottles down on the table. “Are you ready to order?”

Richard gestured towards Dick, who sighed. “What do you recommend?” he asked the blonde, sliding his legs fully under the table and picking up the menu. Richard perked up immediately.

The food was great, of course. And while the prices made Dick feel guilty, they didn’t make him outright cringe. It only ended up costing as much as a dinner for three, if everyone had two drinks. Dick stayed because, well, the only thing that really mattered was whether or not he wanted to be there with Richard. And he did. And there was no way he was going to call Alfred and get him to come back after only ten minutes, if he’d ever even left.

It went well. They laughed and talked like normal, as if there’d never been any awkwardness. And if Richard reached across the table for his hand, it was only to look at Dick’s watch, and if his leg ended up resting against Dick’s, it was only because he thought it was the table leg, and moved it after a couple of minutes, though Dick didn’t say anything. It was just an accident, why make things weird?

Eventually, when they’d gone through three unreasonably small courses, Richard slipped a card into the little leather envelope with a wink and, after it was returned, they left. Dick pulled out his phone, knowing that a car would be there for him in under ten minutes once he gave the word, but Richard stopped him.

“I have my car, we could drive around for a bit, maybe go to my house,” he said. As he spoke, he untied his bowtie and pulled it through his collar, then undid the first few buttons on his shirt as if he’d been uncomfortable. The change in the way it made him look was shocking. Before, he looked ready to accept an Oscar, or a diploma or something. Now he looked like he was about to seduce an heiress away from her rich daddy. The open collar framed his Adam’s apple and revealed just a little too much of the dip between his pectoral muscles to be proper, but not enough to be slutty - just inviting. The light from the restaurant made gold flash in his hair. The black jacket fit his broad shoulders perfectly. Richard stood just a little too close to Dick, like they were sharing an umbrella, but it wasn’t raining.

“I wish I could,” Dick started, “But... Alfred’s going to be expecting me back.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do to just, like, put him off for a few hours? Just for tonight?” His voice was husky and teasing, but there was a whiny note under it all sounding like he was trying not to plead. “I want to spend time with you, now that the club’s over, and we’ve only got like six weeks until exams, and then graduation, and then... I’m gone. You know? I’m off, outta this city.” Dick watched Richard tentatively wind his fingers through his. “What if this is our last chance?”

Dick groaned. He was being pulled apart. On one hand, he knew what would happen if he went with Richard, if he lied to Alfred. He knew his phone must have a GPS tracker in it. Sure, Bruce wasn’t in Gotham, but so what? He’d be back by Monday, and then Alfred would tell him everything, faithfully, because that was what he did, it was what he was. Faithful. But Dick would be gone by then wouldn’t he? He was leaving tomorrow. His plan was all in place. He wouldn’t be here to receive that punishment. But what if Alfred locked him up somehow after this? If he misbehaved tonight... It wasn’t impossible.

But... Richard was right, more than he knew. This was their last chance. If Dick left tomorrow, he’d never see Richard again. He’d never be on this side of the country again. He’d change his name, live off the grid, with no address, no phone number... Tonight was all they had, all he had to say goodbye to the only friend, the best person he’d ever known.  Maybe he could do it, with a little lie and careful timing.

He put his phone away and smiled at Richard. “Let him think we’re still in the restaurant,” he said, his heart pounding.

Richard grinned and pulled Dick by the hand down the street to where his car was parked. Richard’s car was a small second-hand hatchback. It was boring to look at, kind of old, and the inside had a faint smell Dick couldn’t identify. It was nothing like the fleet Bruce maintained. It was functional. Dick liked it immediately.

Once they were both seated inside, Dick expected them to drive off somewhere, but instead Richard took a moment to get comfortable. He took off his jacket and threw it onto the backseat, running his hands through his hair, leaving tracks in the styled smoothness of it. He unbuttoned his cuffs and folded his sleeves over and up past his elbows. It was as if the older boy was boiling hot and wanting to expose as much skin as possible, but Dick felt fine in his tie and jacket. Summer was coming up, but they were still firmly in late Spring. It might be warm during the day, but it was getting dark now, and the car wasn’t stuffy at all. Casting his eyes over Richard’s body, Dick saw that the boy wasn’t sweating; in fact, the fine golden hairs of his forearms were raised and Dick noticed with a guilty twinge the small hard points of Richard’s nipples sticking out through his shirt.

“Sorry, I’m just no good with these monkey suits,” Richard said, and Dick realised he must have noticed him staring.

“I-it’s okay. Me neither,” he answered.

“Really? I thought... I mean, with Wayne being your dad now-”

“He’s not my dad!” Dick bit in sharply.

“Sorry! Of course not, that was... incredibly insensitive of me, I’m sorry.” Richard sighed. “I just meant, he must take you loads of fancy places and stuff.”

Dick shrugged and looked out the window.

“I thought you would have, like, really high standards.”

“I’m not like him,” Dick said. To cover the awkwardness, he added “That’s why we’re friends, right? Because we’re not like them; Bruce, and the kids at school.”

“Right... So, er, I guess I should have just taken you for a burger or something, huh?”

Dick heard something in his voice and glanced at Richard, who was staring at his hands, which were hanging by the fingertips from the steering wheel.

“Next time.” Dick knew there wouldn’t be a next time, but Richard looked sad.

“Next time?” Richard looked at Dick hopefully, and Dick had one of those absurd moments where it was like he’d forgotten that Richard’s eyes were blue, struck by their shape and size and exact glittering shade as if he was seeing them for the first time.

“Yeah,” Dick answered, and Richard’s face slowly widened into a grin.

“Hey, we could go now if you want, I know a great burger place, we could get milkshakes-”

“Urgh!” Dick interrupted. “I couldn’t eat another bite. Seriously,” he laughed, laying his hand on his stomach for dramatic emphasis.

“Okay,” Richard relented, his smile softening. He reached out and turned the key in the ignition. The car grumbled to life. “So where to? I could take you to Ma- Look Out Point.”

“... Make Out Point? Is that what you were going to say?” Dick smiled as Richard visibly squirmed, turning his face into his shoulder like a guilty dog.

“It’s just what they call it,” he groaned. “I didn’t mean anything by it...” He glanced at Dick quickly.

Dick laughed. “Where is it?”

Richard looked surprised that he’d asked. “Er, it’s on a hill on the edge of the city. You can see all the lights and everything. It’s pretty.”

“You’ve been there before?”

“I go there to... think. Sometimes.”

“Think?” Dick laughed as Richard blushed and got all twisted up.

“Well, yeah, sometimes!” he protested.

Dick decided to let Richard off the hook. He was 18 and Dick knew he’d had at least one girlfriend already, and he must have had more. They might go to an all-boys school, but Richard was hot, with his gold hair, blue eyes, and gymnast’s body, plus he had money by most people’s standards. He was smart but not stuck-up. Girls would be all over him. Sex might be something that Dick might never be able to enjoy, ever, but he was well aware that other boys had... urges. Needs. Other words like that, that prudish school teachers use when they want to be obscure about it. There were chemicals in Richard’s body that would make his cock hard and make him want to do something with it, find a warm wet hole for it, just like Bruce-

No. Not like Bruce. Richard was not like Bruce. Richard was the opposite of Bruce. Richard was doing this nice thing for him.

“Sounds too far away,” Dick said, dismissing Make Out Point. Alfred might be lenient about timing tonight, but he would almost certainly be checking the locator in Dick’s phone, and there was no way Dick was going to bring the cavalry crashing down on what was so far a good night by driving out of the city. “Let’s just go to yours.”

“Okay,” Richard said. “The house is empty. Dad’s at a conference, and Mom’s at a spa, I think. Or visiting her sister or something. She wasn’t very clear.” Richard pulled the car out into traffic, and they followed the current through the city. Neither of them spoke, silenced by the vibrant, dirty nightlife around them, so colourful and happy, with so much so very wrong with it, until they pulled into Richard’s drive. He parked the car and shut the engine off, and Dick roused himself with an effort as if he had been asleep. He rubbed his hands through his hair and over his face. Richard sat and watched him until eventually, not knowing what else to do, he opened the car door and got out.

The night air was cool but not cold, it was calm but you could still smell the city on the breeze. Richard followed him out of the car and gestured him over as he went to unlock the front door to the house.

Dick could tell the house was empty as soon as the door was opened. Richard strode in and tossed his keys on a side table, totally comfortable, but Dick stepped in with the reverence reserved for mausoleums or murder scenes, places where the structure has its own history and purpose and mind capable of judgement and anger or approval. An empty house is like that. A living space with nothing living in it becomes, itself, so dead that its death is felt like a presence. Dick had forgotten that. Wayne Manor was never empty, never totally empty, not with Alfred ghosting around behind the walls at every hour of the day or night.

Dick took his phone out to text the butler, just in case a SWAT team had already been deployed to black-bag him.

Going to watch a film with Richard at his house

If Alfred had a problem, he could text Dick back, but God, Dick hoped it wasn’t worth the old man’s effort. He hated Dick after all. He was probably hoping Richard kept a pool full of alligators for Dick to fall into.

Richard flipped some lights on and kicked off his shoes. “Make yourself at home,” he instructed, so Dick took his shoes off as well. “You want a drink or anything?”

“No, I’m good thanks.” Dick followed him through the house, remembering the family photos and other landmarks from his first visit as he passed them. Richard took them upstairs, into a cramped room with a surprisingly bohemian two-seater sofa and a TV. The sofa was covered with a knitted blanket and the seats had collapsed with use, while the TV against the opposite wall was so close Richard wouldn’t have been able to stretch his legs out. There was a small coffee table made of some thin, pale wood with a couple of empty cans and coffee rings on it, and a dirty cereal bowl sat on the floor next to the armrest. Video games were stacked under the window, and a console spread wires like vines across the floor that flowered into matching controllers.

“This used to be my and Rob’s playroom when we were kids,” Richard explained, moving some stuff around, the bowl out of sight. “When we got older, we just put a TV in here.” He flopped onto the sofa, one arm stretched over the back of it, which he patted to indicate Dick should sit down. Dick shrugged out of his suit jacket as he walked over and sat, tipping his head onto the back of the sofa as his fingers fumbled with the knot on his tie at his throat. He was vaguely aware that the ends of his hair had fallen against the tips of Richard’s fingers, and that he didn’t move them away, but it didn’t seem to matter. He felt Richard pinch the ends and flick them back and forth as he continued to fight the knot of his tie.

“Do you need me to-?” Richard was cut off as the tie finally slipped loose and Dick was able to pull it off. Dick leaned over the arm of the sofa to drop the tie with his jacket, and he looked over at Richard as he came back up. The blonde had turned his upper body to watch Dick, his hand hadn’t moved, and he looked oddly... stunned. Struck. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t sad, and not exactly serious either. He seemed to realise how he looked because he cleared his throat suddenly and turned his chest towards the TV, taking his arm away. “So do you want to watch a movie or something?” he said.

“Sure,” Dick answered.

Richard pushed himself out of the sagging sofa and went to look at the DVDs on the shelves, while Dick undid his top buttons free of scrutiny. “Now that I’ve got you here, I don’t know where to start your education. There’s so many you need to see,” Richard teased.

Dick shrugged. “What was that one you were telling me about on the bus to New Carthage?”

“Uhh, Fight Club? Yeah, I have that one. You want to watch that?” he asked, pulling a case of the shelf. Dick shrugged again. He didn’t know anything about movies, and so didn’t particularly care what they watched. It just seemed like a good starting point, and he had been curious about it ever since Richard had mentioned it.

As Richard was putting the disc in and setting the TV up, he said “God, that trip feels like ages ago now. Doesn’t it? That room was insane. And McTravis was such a dick- er, bastard, as usual.” Dick gave him a look for that little slip, but he wasn’t really mad. “I had a good time though,” Richard continued as he came and sat back down next to Dick. He chuckled, “I can’t believe we shared a bed. Yeah, that was totally kosher. I’m lucky I’m not in fucking jail right now.” He reached over his arm rest and brought up a can of beer, holding it out to Dick who hesitated. “You don’t have to,” Richard said.

Dick took the beer and popped the lid. What the fuck. Who cared. A beer wasn’t going to change his life. He winced at the taste, it was bitter and foul, but he could feel the alcoholic warmth tingle through his stomach almost immediately.

“Sorry if it’s warm,” Richard said, getting one for himself and taking a swig. “I’ll be going to fucking jail for this too,” he added as the film began to play some kind of monologue narration.

“Why?” Dick asked, trying not to pull a face as the beer’s flavour did not improve.

Richard looked at him sideways and gave him his signature twisted, crooked grin. “’Cause you’re like, twelve,” he said.

Dick elbowed him hard, and Richard feigned being hurt. “Okay, okay, fif-fourrrrr, err...”

Dick rolled his eyes as Richard made a show of forgetting his age. “Losing your memory, Grandad? And I wasn’t talking about the beer,” he said.

“Neither was I.”

Dick looked at him.

“Hey, all I’m saying is they wouldn’t have put me in your room if you were a girl. Never in a million years. And I’m legally an adult as far as that is concerned. But I guess I got lucky there.” Richard’s eyes were on the TV as he took a long pull on the beer can at the end of his speech.

Dick didn’t know how to reply. What Richard said had confused him. Was Richard saying he... enjoyed sharing a bed with Dick? Like that? Like he would have if he was a girl? An image sprung unbidden into Dick’s mind of Richard in bed with a girl, the same bed from their hotel room, his tanned shoulders curving round her smaller body as he rolled her between the sheets, the muscles making divots in his back, arms, chest... All Dick could think was that they were lucky, both of them, that they could have that, have each other, in pleasure instead of pain and violence.

After that, neither of them had much to say and a natural silence fell between them. Dick asked questions about the movie as he nursed his warm, acrid beer, and Richard pointed out things he thought were important. Pretty soon though, the beer and the soft sofa started to get to Dick, and his head lolled against the wall. When he replied to one of Richard’s comments with a slur, the older boy looked over at him in surprise.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, scandalised.

“No,” Dick scoffed.

Richard sat up with an appalled look on his face. “Holy shit, you are.” He took the can out of Dick’s hand and shook it to feel that it was basically empty before putting it on the table. “That was one beer, Dick. Was it your first?”

Dick grumbled and tried to shove Richard away, but his arm was heavy and uncoordinated, and Richard had to catch his hand before it fell painfully into his lap. He didn’t let go.

“That was cute. You’re cute. You’re a cute drunk,” Richard teased, getting in Dick’s face to make patronising little pouts as he spoke. Dick turned his head away in disgust.

“Urgh. How many have you had?” he said.

“I don’t know. Three, two and a half,” Richard replied, casting a glance over his shoulder at the empty cans on the table and floor.

“So you’re not exactly sober either,” Dick pointed out, noticing that Richard was still leaning over him, and was holding his arms tangled up in front of his chest as if to restrain him, but for some reason Dick wasn’t freaking out. He managed to get a few fingers free to push against Richard’s chest. He meant to push the boy away, but his fingers slipped into his open shirt collar and along Richard’s skin over his heart. He tried to get his hand out again but just made clumsy swipes. It was like Richard was holding his hand there, or leaning into it. Recognising it was futile, Dick gave up and allowed his hand to rest there, feeling Richard’s heart galloping under his fingertips.

“Guess not,” Richard replied, his voice suddenly rougher, quieter than it had been.

Dick met his eyes. He’d never seen eyes like that, so focused and watchful. Even Bruce’s eyes never seemed to really see him, though obviously he saw everything that Dick did. With Richard though, it was like he was really looking, or like he was begging Dick to look back into him. Like he wanted to hold all of Dick’s attention.

“You have really pretty eyes,” Dick said, half-drunk and almost hypnotised.

“Do I?” Richard whispered, leaning closer. Dick didn’t think anything of the fact that he was now lying against the armrest with Richard above him, their arms being pressed between them.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I wish I was more like you.”

Dick felt a shift in the rubble of limbs and a warm hand came against his stomach. He breathed a little harder and the corner of Richard’s mouth twitched up.

“Why? Your eyes are pretty too,” Richard asked. Dick found his hands were now resting on Richard’s shoulders as if keeping him away, but he couldn’t exert any pressure. His whole body felt warm and heavy and sleepy. Richard’s hand slid up Dick’s front, his fingers digging as they crawled through the soft but narrow space. It felt very intimate somehow, to have this squashed thing moving between him and Richard.

“Because. You’re... innocent.”

“Innocent? I’m not that innocent,” Richard replied, his eyes dropping to Dick’s mouth.

“Everyone loves you,” Dick continued.

“Everyone?” Richard’s hand had now passed over Dick’s chest and the tips of his fingers rested against the base of Dick’s neck. His other hand was pressed into the sofa cushion next to Dick, taking most of his weight.

“Yeah, you’re cool, and ridiculously attractive, and a good person...”

“Dick, I don’t think you know... what I’m really like,” Richard said, staring into Dick’s eyes, looking for an answer. “What I really think about you sometimes. If you did, you might not be here with me now, like this.”

Dick couldn’t quite grasp what Richard was saying. “I like it here, Richard. It feels nice.” Richard’s house was nice. Even if his family wasn’t perfect, at least he had one. He liked Mrs Rawn, he liked that she made cookies even though they were terrible, he liked that Richard had an older brother that he had a good relationship with, even if they never saw each other. Being here made Dick feel normal, like any other kid round at a friend’s house.

“I like it too,” Richard whispered.

And then Richard was kissing him. Dick may have made a small surprised sound, and closed his eyes as he flinched, but he could handle it. Richard was being gentle. Maybe the beer had gone to his head more than Dick had realised, but he wasn’t totally losing his mind the way he would have expected to. Richard’s lips were teasing his to respond, not crushing, not violating. He could breathe. Dick tentatively laid his fingers against Richard’s cheek, soft from whatever products he’d used for shaving before their dinner. The boy smelt so good. He felt Richard’s jaw move under his hand and against his mouth like the tectonic plates moving, rewriting the surface of the earth, and somehow, feeling it like that, sent a shockwave through Dick that he’d never felt before, like electricity. He pressed his body up, wanting to feel Richard move again. How did this boy move? How did his body work? What was the mechanism of his bones and tendons and muscles? He had the rare opportunity to feel it turn beneath the skin under his hands and he suddenly needed to feel it again.

Something soft and wet touched his lips, at first indistinguishable from Richard’s lips, but as it moved against him again he realised it was Richard’s tongue. How strange. What should he do? What was he expected to do? Richard licked plaintively along the seam of Dick’s lips, like a starving stray begging at the kitchen door, terrified of humans but too hungry to stay away, and Dick couldn’t help himself. He relaxed his lips, opening his teeth almost by reflex. Richard’s soft wet tongue touched Dick’s and the sensation was so odd that Dick felt compelled to explore it further, running his tongue up Richard’s.

Richard jerked up suddenly, and Dick could feel saliva cooling on his lips as his hands were pulled from where they had been holding Richard’s head.

“Shit, oh shit, I have to take you home, I have to take you home, Jesus, Dick.” Richard was sitting on the other end of the couch, running his hands over his face and through his hair roughly. Dick pulled himself up slowly until he was sitting and composed. “Jesus Christ,” Richard continued.

“What?” Dick asked. Sure, he hadn’t planned on kissing Richard, would have expected such a thing to be impossible, but he didn’t think he’d done anything that wrong.

“‘What?’ ‘What?’?! You’re fourteen! And, I got you drunk! I am definitely going to jail for this, and God, I deserve it for the things I want to – Anyway, we have to stop. I have to stop. God. I’m scum. I’m really scum. Doesn’t matter what you said about me, I shouldn’t have – I -”

“Richard, it’s okay,” Dick said, reaching out to pull a hand away from Richard’s face.

Richard slumped back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling, but the hand Dick had taken curled around his, their fingers threading together.  “Yeah, you would say that,” he murmured, unconvinced.

“You were drinking too, and I... didn’t tell you to stop. I would have told you to stop if you were doing anything wrong, and you would have stopped, I know you would have,” Dick told him.

Richard rolled his head to look at Dick. “Sorry. Doesn’t work that way. But thanks anyway. You don’t hate me now, or think I’m gross? You’re not going to dunk a drink on my head and tell me you never want to see me again?”

“No, I’m not going to do that.”

Richard pulled their hands into his lap and stroked his fingers over Dick’s. “Good. But I still have to take you home.”

“Er, can you drive right now?” Dick asked.

“...Probably shouldn’t, you’re right. Shit.” He looked at the ceiling again.

“I can call Alfred, but I kind of don’t want to. I mean, I can still stay a bit longer. The movie’s still on,” Dick said.

“Right.” They watched the TV for a few moments, unsure how to be interested in it now. “You know... I really care about you as a friend, right? I mean, as well?” Richard asked, breaking the fresh silence.

“Yeah,” Dick replied. “You’re still my best friend, Richard.” It was more candid than he’d ever been.

Richard looked down and blushed hard, looking like he was trying to keep from grinning. “...Shucks,” he eventually fought out. Then he pulled Dick under his arm, settling them comfortably side-to-side. “Just watch the movie, Circus Boy, huh? My heart can’t take it, you keep saying stuff like that.”